


Church

by SkinSlave



Category: Let Me Make You a Martyr (2016)
Genre: Cannibalism, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Crime in the title, Drug Use, Guns, Hallucinations, Human Trafficking, Kidnapping, Murder, animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24145516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: An expanding collection of Let Me Make You a Martyr AU fics written for the Banned Together Bingo 2020 event. Each piece is labeled with the associated prompt and additional TWs if necessary. Please consume responsibly.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 21





	1. Left Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cannibalism (Free Space)
> 
> TW: drug use, hallucination.

They said a lot of things about him. He was a Nazi, a government agent, a skinwalker. One grandfather was Geronimo and the other was Jack the Ripper. He robbed graves, ate the dead, cast voodoo curses, and poisoned wells. He got his power straight from hell itself. Or hell got its power from him.

Most of the time, their fear worked in his favor. It made their aim unsteady. It made them trip over their feet. It made them give up. Sometimes they were so afraid that they did the work for him, leaving him standing over their bodies, wrists slit, faces blown off.

And, of course, it meant they left him alone. That was important, especially today.

Pope unwrapped the tiny piece of defrosted meat and laid it carefully in a small cast iron skillet. It sizzled. It had a bit of frostbite, but that was to be expected. It didn't matter.

The mug in his hand was hot and the steam stunk. Peppercorns, jimson berries, tobacco and honeysuckle were a disgusting substitute for coffee. But he sipped the tea anyway. His lips tingled.

Once he had a good sear, Pope popped the meat into his mouth. It was just as tough as last year and tasted even worse. He took a larger swallow of the tea and coughed.

He was turning off the stove when the door creaked open. The old man shuffled in. His dark hair was going grey. Thin shoulders held up a plaid shirt like a coat hanger. He sat down in the wooden chair next to Pope's bed.

"You know," he said, "you could've given me funerary rites. I might've had an afterlife instead of coming back here every damn year."

"Whose rites?"

"All of 'em. Sacrifice a horse, call in a priest, yank my brain out my nose, burn me in a boat… one god or another would've taken me. And I wouldn't have to go through these fuckin' reunions."

Pope chuckled. He filled the percolator with water. He was going to need it. The bed creaked when he sat.

"A god? Or a devil?"

"We're the devils. You know that, boy." The old man leaned back and took a deep breath. "Anyway, if I didn't want it done, I wouldn't have shown you."

They sat in silence for a while. Pope studied his grandfather's face. It was exactly as it had been on that day. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw a younger version of himself run toward the door. He barely caught the old man, who was staggering up the porch, covered in blood. He could smell the gut wound.

"Hey!"

Grandfather's voice interrupted the memory and the figures at the door vanished.

"That part's over. Besides, I ain't gone. You take my flesh, you take the tea, and you remember."

Pope nodded. His mouth was dry. He gulped water from the coffee pot and wiped his mouth on his shirt. He was starting to sweat.

"Have you shown him yet?"

"Hmm?"

"Your kid. Have you shown him?"

"I don't have a kid," Pope said slowly.

"Goddamn it, boy." Grandfather pinched the bridge of his nose. "You gotta teach it. You gotta hand it down."

"I don't want anyone to make the tea for me."

"It ain't about the tea, you stubborn little shit... You think the job dies with you? This place needs a reaper. It needs someone to collect when the balance is due. It needs order. You've been living out here too long, boy. Isolation eats at a man, makes him lose his way in his loneliness."

"I'm alone. Not lonely."

"Yeah," Grandfather scoffed. "That's why you eat a slice of my ass every year like it's fucking Thanksgiving."

They glared at one another for a long moment. But Pope couldn't hold it forever. A wide grin burst onto his face. It was as close to laughter as he'd been in months. He dragged his hands down his face. Grandfather leaned forward and slapped his knee.

"Well, you're not gonna get a kid the old-fashioned way at this point, boy. Christ, you'd be my age by the time you started teaching him. But you'll find one. I found you in a coffee can on the side of LA-1."

"Why'd you keep me?"

"The job needed you, and you needed the job. Even if I left you, you weren't gonna do anything else but kill and die. Knew it when I laid eyes on you. You'll know, too."

Pope reached for the water again. The room was starting to turn blue. He drained the pot and kicked his legs up, stretching out on the bed. Soon the memories would queue up and play, a second chance to see those days.

He could feel Grandfather's warmth at his side, hear his breath. It was good to be alone together again.


	2. Crime of Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Crime" in the Title
> 
> TW: kidnapping, murder mention.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and cleared his throat uncomfortably. Her fine hair, dishwater blonde, was falling out of her braided pigtails. Her eyes were hazel, like his.

"They're dead, aren't they?" she asked.

Pope set the cruise control and sighed. He didn't want to have this conversation. The kid wiped at her forehead, pushing wisps of hair away. She didn't cry. Maybe she was all cried out.

"My mom and dad are dead, too... Are you gonna kill me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You don't need it," he said, pushing his glasses back on his nose.

"Are you gonna keep me somewhere?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't need you." It came out rougher than he'd intended. "Kidnapping is a crime."

"So's murder."

"Smartass."

Pope didn't smile, but he wanted to. She wasn't afraid of him. She turned and looked out the window, at the great nothingness outside. He slowed the car, turned down a gravel lane, and stopped.

"Out."

The girl twisted in her seat, squaring her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed. He pushed his glasses back and nodded toward the door. Slowly, she shook her head.

"Cut the shit, kid."

" _You_ cut the shit. Yousaid I didn't need killing."

"Dropping you out here isn't-"

"No one will find me, and you know it."

"That's not my-"

" _You_ took me out of the trunk."

Pope eyed the handle of her door. He could lean over, flip it open, shove her out. He'd be home in an hour, shucking off his shirt and heading out to check the traps. It would be simple, good, normal. He could get on with his damn life.

Besides, the road was clear. She could follow it back to town, maybe get rescued. If any kid could do it, she could. She was tough already, thin as a twig and still had the nerve to raise her voice to him. Sticks and stones.

Pursing his lips, Pope met the girl's gaze. They just stared for a while. Her cheeks were pink.

"How old are you?"

"Almost ten. How old are _you_?"

He smirked at the vitriol in her voice. She might as well have punched him in the face. She was well past sad and halfway to the kind of rage he knew intimately. She was gonna be somebody's problem, one way or another.

"Old enough to know better than this," he muttered, almost angrily.

The car clicked and revved, backing down the rough road. It swung neatly onto the highway and resumed its original path. It moved more quickly, like the driver no longer needed to think about where he was going.

The kid was stiff for a while, as rigid as she'd been when he first opened the trunk of the car and found her there. But as they passed a couple of lonely houses, perfect places for him to try to abandon her again, she loosened up.

"I'm Rooney."

"Ok."

"I'm thirsty."

Pope glanced at her. He hadn't considered how dehydrated she would be after hours of confinement. He should've thought of that. He should've stopped to buy a soda.

"You can wait," he said softly. "Got water at the house."

The girl nodded. She folded her hands in her lap. He could feel her eyes.

"So… you need me after all?"

"No."

He reached down and turned the dial on the radio. After a few seconds of static, a slow bluesy tune crackled out of the speakers. He pulled the visor down to keep the shifting light out of his eyes.

The sun was starting to set. He knew it would, eventually. But maybe something else would rise in its place.


	3. Eye for an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childhood Sexual Abuse
> 
> TW: child trafficking, guns, murder

For the first few nights, she slept in his bed. It seemed right. From what she'd said, which certainly wasn't everything, she was in need of some good sleep. He made do on the cabin floor.

But within a week, he had a trundle bed built. It wasn't much: wood from out back and a rope webbing to hold her bedding up off the floor. But she slept ok. And she said she liked the way it nested under his bed. The symbolism wasn't lost on him.

Pope gave her 2 weeks to settle in. She found the nooks and crannies in his routine and wedged herself inside. She helped out, watched carefully, disappeared from time to time. Before long, she was in the habit of getting dressed and starting coffee before he was up. 

"I'm going out," he said over his coffee. "Got something to take care of."

"Me too?"

Rooney was sitting in his one chair, holding her plate in her lap, a fleck of scrambled egg on her cheek. She might be angry one day that he'd gone alone. But that day, she was just starting to get some color in her face and some distance between herself and the camp. She wasn't ready to go back. She'd just have to scream later.

"You're staying. Feed the chickens. If I'm not back by 6, check the traps. Don't go any farther than that. Got it?"

"Yeah," she pouted.

"I mean it, kid. Don't make me look for you."

He waited for her to nod, then lit a cigarette and pushed his glasses back. He wouldn't need to bother changing his clothes. A stained white undershirt and jeans were as good as camouflage where he was going.

The camp hadn't changed much in the weeks since Hondo's murder. His RV still had a smudge of blood on the door. The other residents milled around in a drugged stupor, or sat in their rusted-out trucks. It was an infestation.

Pope had parked the car out of earshot. He cut through the trees on foot, watching for snares and spring traps. The dealer was gone, but his paranoia could still be waiting in the brush.

She hadn't said much, but she'd said enough. He searched the empty faces as he circled the camp. The man was bald and wore a red ball cap. He had a tan. He smelled like gasoline. Hondo called him Bud.

There. Pope's eyes narrowed. Bud was sitting in a lawn chair, drinking from a jar and talking to a woman who looked nauseous. He was smiling. This was his good life.

The grass next to the chair was trampled. He'd worn a bit of a path in it toward the treeline. Pope stepped back into the brush and made his way toward the ending point. He only had to wait.

Eventually, the man in the hat wandered down his private path. The sound of his urine splattering in the leaf litter hid Pope's footfalls. He let Bud put his dick away before pressing the barrel of his pistol into his ribs.

"Let's go."

He didn't have to say any more. They moved through the wood quietly. The sounds of the camp faded. Confident in their privacy, Pope shoved his shoulder, sending him over a fallen log.

"Fuck!" Bud moaned, rolling himself into a sitting position. "The fuck you want from me?"

Pope pushed his glasses back on his nose. His lips were tight. It wasn't supposed to feel like this, hot and hungry. He needed to make sure he was doing the right thing. He needed to hear the proof.

"The girl."

Bud leaned against an old tree. He watched the pistol for a few moments. Then the bulb finally flickered in his head.

"The girl! Yeah, man. I seen her. Tried to buy her from Hondo. She ain't here. But, uh… if you want her, I can find her for ya."

"That's not enough."

"C'mon, man. She… she's special, man. Not just some kid, ya know. She's still flat, no ass. Blonde. Real cute. Got those little hands. They make everything look real big, ya know?"

Pope cocked his head like an animal honing in on a sound. Bud laughed and nodded.

"Yeah! Ya know what I mean! Sucks like a hoover, too. Got the tightest little pussy. Cried over a finger. A finger! Can you imagine getting that on your cock? Like a goddamn hood ornament! I didn't fuck her though, man. She's still cherry. All yours. I'll find her for ya."

Pope took a deep breath, his eyes on the man's nervous face. That shit-eating grin made his blood boil. He held his free hand out. Bud took it and stood. As soon as he was on his feet, the shot rang through the branches.

The body crumpled into the dirt. The mouth moved a little. Pope added another bullet to make it stop. He didn't want to hear any more.

He listened for the scurrying of vermin. No one was coming. Maybe they were too high to notice. Maybe they were relieved. Pope tucked the pistol back into his waistband. He wanted to go home.

On the way back to the cabin, the radio dj gave Rooney's description. They wanted her, but they didn't deserve her. They hadn't protected her. They hadn't given her justice. They couldn't give her back that power. They couldn't guide her.

Maybe he could, and maybe he couldn't. But at least he could look her in the eye and tell her she was safe.


	4. Few and Far Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Animal Cruelty
> 
> TW: off-screen violence, minor blood, non-graphic fish cleaning.

The water lapped against the side of the dock. It was new, built from old wood from a demolished barn. The smell of the marine stain was fading.

Pope leaned back, letting his feet dip into the lake. It was cold. Sundays were so few and far between lately. Chilled toes and a hot Louisiana evening were exactly what he needed.

When the splash came, he opened one eye. The fishing rod at his side hadn't moved. That single hazel eye followed the noise, down the bank, to a man in a green trucker hat.

He was wrestling with a boy - maybe 13. The kid was silent but his body language was screaming. He reached toward a spot where the water was boiling. Something orange flailed just at the surface.

"Let it be, dammit," the man said, shoving the boy backward. "I ain't raisin' you to be soft. Best you learn it now."

A garbled yowl echoed. The boy charged the water again and ducked as his father threw a punch. He reached the tabby cat and pulled it, and the piece of cinder block it was tied to, onto the shore. Not to be undermined, the man jerked the weight away from the kid and threw it back into the water, trailing the animal behind it..

Pope sighed and pulled his feet back in. He tapped his daughter's leg, an order to stay put and watch the line. She scooted over on the dock, next to his rod, and watched him walk away.

"The fuck you want?!" 

The man sounded even angrier, but it didn't last long. As Rooney watched the bobber bounce, she listened to the man try to fight, grunting, then scream and fall silent. The bobber went under and she jerked the pole, setting the hook.

She got to her bare feet and began to reel in the catch. It plopped out of the water and onto the wooden planks. She knelt and carefully removed the hook. She could feel Pope watching her. He didn't intervene.

Holding it down flat with one hand, Rooney used the other to take the blade from Pope's tackle box. She wrinkled her nose and cut the fish's head off. Humming a little, her tiny fingers cleaned it and dropped it into their styrofoam cooler.

"Good girl."

His mouth was emotionless. She felt his approval anyway. He handed her the cat, soaked and shaken but alive, and bent to rinse the man's blood from his hunting knife and hands. She busied herself petting the cat and drying its fur with her skirt.

"You understand the difference?" Pope asked, shaking the water off.

Rooney looked from the cat to the fish and nodded. Pope's big hand reached for the cat and scratched it behind the ear. It shivered, but it didn't try to bite. The girl cradled it in her arms to warm it back up.

Pope nudged past her and sat back down on the dock. He checked the lure he'd made from an old bottle cap and tossed it back into the lake. She settled in next to him.

Innocents were so few and far between lately...


End file.
